


The Road is Long and Fraught with Pain

by Actual_Writing_Trashcan



Series: Colossus Hyperfixation Collection [10]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Happy Ending tho, I just know it, Mentions of Death, Therapy Mention, Verbal Fighting, because i am sensitive and need happy endings to survive my angsty existence, i am back in my element, implied panic attack, mentions of abuse, reader goes through the ringer again, undefined mental health issues, wade is an excellent date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 05:37:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15790038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Writing_Trashcan/pseuds/Actual_Writing_Trashcan
Summary: The next step in your journey to healing.No one ever said it would be easy.[Set post "Dig the Needle In" and pre "THIS IS HALLOWEEN."]





	The Road is Long and Fraught with Pain

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'm hitting a pattern: a few fluffy pieces, then ANGST.
> 
> Fluff next time. I promise.
> 
> Translation: Radi boga: For fuck's sake/for god's sake (depending on which side of Google translate you believe).
> 
> Because it's my belief that Piotr, as an adult, does swear. Just not often (or in front of Wade).

“Healing is not an overnight process. It is a daily cleansing of pain, a daily healing of your life.” --Leon Brown.

 

* * *

 

You knew the road to recovery was going to be long.

You knew it was going to be hard.

You didn’t know it was going to hurt this fucking much.

 

* * *

 

“ _Myshka_.”

“No.”

“ _Dorogaya moya_.”

“I said no!”

“Y/N.”

You let out a strained sigh. “No! I mean it!”

You’ve locked yourself in your bathroom and are huddled up against the side of the tub. It’s supposed to be your first day of therapy with Professor Xavier and one of the specialists on staff at the mansion, but you can’t bring yourself to unlock the door and walk over to the clinic wing of the sprawling house.

You can’t relive all those memories again. You can’t. You won’t.

Piotr is on the other side of the door, trying to coax you out. “Come on,  _lyublyu_. You know you need to do this.”

“No.” You’ll deny it later, but you’re sobbing right now. The terror of having to sit down with the Professor and an utter stranger and bare your soul to them has you trembling. “I can’t do it, Piotr. I can’t go through it again. I _can’t_! I  _won’t_!”

He sighs and leans against the door with a soft thump. “ _Dorogoy_ \--”

“If you want me to go, you’ll have to rip the door off!”

“I’m not doing that,  _myshka_. You need to come out because you  _choose_  to, not because I  _force_  you. But it’s going to be okay.”

“No, it’s not!” You’re full on panicking now, palms sweating as you grip the side of the tub. “They’re going to realize I’m a bad person, and they’re going to hate me, and Professor Xavier is going to kick me out--”

“No, he’s not,” Piotr insists, calm but firm. “If he hasn’t kicked Wade out, he won’t kick you out.”

Okay, fair enough. One point Piotr; zero you.

“But what if you hate me?” You whimper, mind beyond rational thinking at the moment.

“I won’t. I love you, and that means regardless of whatever’s happened in your past that you think makes you worthy of hate. But, if me being there bothers you so much, I’ll wait outside.”

Two points Piotr; zero points you.

“I don’t want to do this alone.”

“Then I’ll go in with you. Whatever you want,  _myshka_. You’re in control.”

Three points Piotr; zero points you.

You scrub tears off your cheeks. “I’m scared.”

“I know,  _moya lyubov’_. But it’s going to be okay. I’ve had to do sessions with Professor Xavier before; he’s very understanding and has utmost professionalism.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“I think it will. Many mutants have worked with Professor Xavier. I’ve yet to see one that he couldn’t help.”

Four points Piotr; zero points you.

You’re almost ready to concede defeat and come out of the bathroom, but one nagging fear stops you. “What about the X-Force. Neena and Wade and everyone? What if they hate me?”

“The sessions are private,  _myshka_. They won’t know anything unless you tell them or consent to letting your therapist tell them. Besides, remember phone call from when you left. Everyone was excited to hear from you and wanted you to come home, even after you told them everything. That’s not going to change just because you’re getting therapy.”

Five points Piotr; zero points you.

“But what if it does?”

“Then I will kick their asses for you.”

Six points Piotr; zero points you.

“Promise?”

“I promise,  _moya dusha_.”

You edge over to the door, still crying softly, and open it.

Piotr looks down at you, the epitome of gentleness and love. He reaches over to your desk and picks up a box of tissues. “Easy,  _lyublyu_. Take deep breaths.”

You sniffle and blow your nose. “I’m scared. I’m really,  _really_  fucking scared.”

He hugs you against his massive chest and smooths his hand over your hair. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

You look up at him, eyes wide and pleading. “Will you carry me there?”

“No,  _moya dusha_. You need to walk on your own for this. It needs to be one hundred percent your choice.”

He’s right, you know he’s right, but that doesn’t make it any more palatable. You blow your nose one more time, then latch on to his hand and grip it tightly. “Come on. Before I lock myself in the bathroom again.”

 

* * *

 

The walk to the clinic side of the mansion is agonizingly long. It’s a school day, so the halls are mercifully empty. You’re trembling as you walk; your hands are clammy, your breathing’s fast and shallow. If it wasn’t for Piotr’s hand holding onto yours, you would’ve sprinted back to your room and locked yourself inside well over fifty times by now.

You know this is something you need --have--to do. Your uncle and the Professor are of the same mindset that the repressed trauma from your childhood makes your episodes worse, more frequent. The small, hopeful side of you wants to believe that you can get better.

The larger, stronger, deeply cynical side of you is terrified that you’ll kill someone and persuaded you to stash a ‘go-bag’ under your bed, just in case.

Your heart --which has been hammering in your chest for the entire walk--kicks into ‘hyperactive hamster on meth’ overdrive as you approach the last corner separating you from the mercilessly short, straight shot to the psychotherapy rooms. You stop in your tracks, half-wanting to bolt back to your room and half-hoping that your boyfriend will just finish dragging you the rest of the way to the office.

He doesn’t, but he doesn’t let go of your hand either. He stops with you and watches you carefully, neither judging or impatient. His thumb traces small circles on the back of your hand. “Deep breaths,  _myshka_.”

You barely manage to avoid hyperventilating.

“What’s wrong,  _moya dusha_? Why are you so upset?”

“I can’t do it, Piotr,” you whimper. “It’s bad enough reliving the memories during my episodes. I can’t do it on purpose. It hurts too much.”

He lets go of your hand to cup the back of your head with his hands. He bends down and kisses the top of your head. “I can’t help with that,  _myshka_. But I know you’re strong. If there’s anyone who can get through this, it’s you.” He takes your hands again and walks back until he’s past the corner, letting both your arms stretch out between the two of you. “You can do this.” He flicks a glance down the hall and smiles. “Besides, there are some people here who want to see you.”

Damn him and his knowing that curiosity is your greatest weakness. You’ve done many a stupid, life-threatening, and borderline illegal thing because of curiosity.

You creep up to him with hesitant, shaky movements and peer around the corner with watery eyes.

The X-Force --your found family--is waiting in the hall. Ellie, Yukio, and Russell all have teacher’s passes in their hands, Neena’s leaning against the wall while staring at nothing, and Wade’s leaning against a worried looking Nathan.

Wade notices you first. He grins and pulls you into a big hug. “We were worried that you’d used your powers to punt yourself into an alternate dimension.”

“ _Wade_  was worried about that,” Neena corrects. “The rest of us are capable of rational thought.”

Wade, contrary to his usual habits, ignores the dig and squeezes you tighter. “You’re awesome. You know that, right?”

It’s not something you believe on your own yet, but you appreciate his support nonetheless. “Thanks.”

“It’s gonna be alright,” Russell pipes up when Wade releases you. The teen shoots you a small smile. “They’ve got good people here. It’s really helped me.”

Your heart aches at that, aches at how he’s trying to support and reassure you despite being in the midst of his own recovery. You reach out and give him a hug, which he happily reciprocates.

Ellie and Yukio are next, hugging you at the same time --Ellie only uses one arm, but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

Neena follows with a smile and big hug of her own. She tells you that you’ve got this, that she believes Lady Luck’s on your side, and that they’re all rooting for you.

Nathan’s last. He wraps his human arm around you and props his chin on top of your head. “Domino’s right. You’ve got this, kid.”

You manage a nervous nod, turn --and oh, holy shit balls, you do not got this. ‘Got’ is not anywhere in the vicinity of your reality.

Professor X is in his wheelchair, sitting next to a beautiful African-American woman dressed in a green dress, a professional looking navy blue blazer, and tasteful gold jewelry.

She smiles warmly at you. “You must be Y/N. My name is Alyssa. I’m one of the therapists on staff at Xavier’s. It’s nice to meet you.”

You manage to eek out some sort of English pleasantry, but the niceties end there as your brain utterly freezes. Your knees lock, your teeth click together, and your breathing shallows.

You can’t do this. You don’t got this.

Piotr’s hand clasps your shoulder, warm and comforting and  _safe_. He gives you a loving, concerned look, as if to ask whether you were okay.

Alyssa smiles --knowing, but not pitying, which is nice--and keeps going. “Why don’t you come on in, and we can get started. Is this everyone you want to come in?”

You freeze --again. You’d originally planned on just bringing Piotr, but having your whole family --nuts as it may be--is a comforting thought. On the other hand, however, you don’t want everyone up in your business; you struggle enough to look your real self in the eye each morning when you stand in front of the mirror. The prospect of having everyone else see the ‘real you’ before you do feels downright painful.

Ellie saves you, in the end. “We have to get back to class,” she says, gesturing between herself, Yukio, and Russell.

Wade, quickly catching on to your relief at having someone else make decisions for you right now, loops his arms around Nathan’s neck. “Bae and I have some serious interior design to do; we’re moving in together.”

Nathan flips him over his shoulder without a second thought. “Are not, dipshit. We’re mission planning.”

“Potato, tomato.”

“I’ve got a time slot for the training room that I need to use.” Neena flashes a grin and a thumbs up at you. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

You tuck her affirmation --and your team’s willingness to support you, even if it means giving you space--in your heart as everyone, save Piotr, walks back down the hall. You look up, for reassurance, and relax a little when he kisses your forehead.

“That’s a wonderful group of friends you’ve got,” Alyssa says warmly. She nods to Piotr. “Is he coming in with you?”

“...Yeah? Is that alright? He’s my boyfriend, and I’d just... feel better if he comes with me.”

“Of course. However you want to do this.” She exchanges introductions with Piotr, then motions to her office. “Shall we?”

You take a deep breath, grip onto Piotr’s hand, and walk resolutely into the room.

 

* * *

 

It’s a beautiful room, painted in soothing shades of green and blue. Comfortable, casual furniture decorates the room, along with paintings in shades of purple and gray. A series of succulents in brightly colored pots sit on the windowsill of a window that overlooks the garden.

You sit on an overstuffed couch, pressed against Piotr’s side.

Professor Xavier, Alyssa explains, is present because of some of the side effects your episodes present. “Until we know how to diagnose your condition, the Professor and I thought it prudent that he attend our sessions to evaluate your psychic signature.”

You let out a huff. “I can tell you what it is --lack of self control.”

Alyssa purses her lips. “You certainly know yourself better than anyone else in this room, but I would beg to differ.” She explains her empathic and telepathic abilities, along with the training that went into her psychotherapy licensing, before talking about her initial read on you. “I’d venture to say that you deal with a great deal of anxiety, and possibly some depression --but nothing I’ve seen in you so far screams lack of self control. At least, not as it relates to your powers or your views of them.”

You’re not sure what to do with that --you’re not used to having someone push back at with your usual self-depreciation with something other than gentle affirmation--so you opt to nestle yourself against Piotr until you’re partially tucked behind him.

The session proceeds from there with the general evaluation questions. She asks you about your medical history, your biological family, and other questions about your decision to seek therapy.

“What do you struggle with most, as it relates to your past and ideations of yourself?”

Loaded question. Poor debate ethics. You mumble out bits of truth anyway --coping with the trauma of being raised in an abusive household, self-confidence, and other innocuous details that don’t raise too many eyebrows.

“What are you goals for therapy? What would you like to achieve?”

Getting control over your powers so you don’t kill people. Obviously.

“And what is it that causes you to lose control of your powers?”

The  _fuck_  if you know! You may have agreed to therapy sessions because they seemed like a good idea, and --yeah--you were okay with doing it, but that doesn’t mean you know jack anything about yourself! Your childhood wasn’t exactly a ‘let’s talking about our feelings’ deal; all you learned was how to hide yourself away and make sure that you were always in control of yourself, no matter the costs.

You realize by the looks Alyssa and Professor Xavier are giving you --and the way Piotr’s wrapped his arm around your shoulders--that you’ve been talking out loud for the past couple minutes. You duck your head, cheeks burning.

To her credit, Alyssa’s incredibly patient with you. She takes your rounds of irritation and silence in stride, coaxing answers out of you when she needs to and explaining terms and ideas where you need explanation.

It’s still hard. You  _never_  talk about this shit.  _Never_. By the time your hour with Alyssa comes to a close you’re shaking in Piotr’s arms and your head is spinning.

Professor Xavier wheels up to where you’re sitting and takes your hands in his. “I have full confidence in our ability to help you, Y/N. As she said earlier, Ms. Jackson specializes in helping our residents recover from abuse; I firmly believe that, with some time and effort, you can reach your goals.”

“I second that,” Alyssa says with a warm smile.

You nod mutely and cling to Piotr’s hand as the two of your walk out of Alyssa’s office. You’re completely worn out; all you want to do is crawl into bed and nap for the rest of the day. Wordlessly, you lift your arms to Piotr. You know he’s focused on having you make all your choices, take all your steps for yourself, but right now you feel like you can barely move, and all you want is to be in his arms--

Piotr obliges you, scooping you into his arms bridal-style. He kisses your forehead as he carries you back towards the residents’ wing. He croons in your ear about how well you did. How proud he is of you. How much he loves you. How brave you are.

You don’t feel particularly brave. You just feel gutted.

 

* * *

 

You glare at the black composition notebook sitting next to you on the bed. You lift your hand and send it flying towards the door with a flicking gesture.

Piotr sighs in his chair and stands to retrieve the book. “ _Myshka_ \--”

“This is stupid!”

“No, it’s not. Alyssa and Professor believe that using feelings journal will help you, and I’m inclined to agree.”

“Oh, and what the fuck is that supposed to help with? My parents treated me like shit when they shouldn’t have and I’m the garbage byproduct of their fucked up decisions. Guess what! I already knew that!” You throat constricts with a sudden rush of grief. You flop down on your side and turn away from him.

The bed shifts as he lays down next to you. He draws you into his arms, gently spooning you while he kisses your cheek, temple, hair --anything he can reach, really.

You dig your teeth into your lower lip, shaking with silent sobs as tears leak out from behind your eyelids. “I already know what I am, Pete. This journal isn’t going to change that.”

“It’s not to help you know who you are; it’s to help you cope with stress and process emotions better. But you’re not garbage,  _myshka_. You’re wonderful. Beautiful. Intelligent.”

“I’m really not.”

“Yes, you are. You just can’t see it.”

You twist so you’re facing him and bury your face into his shoulder. “I can’t. Not tonight. Piotr, please--” You cling to the fabric of his shirt, balling your hands into fists “--not tonight. Please. I’ll get to it, I promise. Just -- _please_.”

He lets out a sigh bigger than he is and hugs you against his chest. “Just for tonight,  _moya lyubov’_. No other exceptions.”

 

* * *

 

Let the record show that you are the world’s biggest little shit when you’re faced with something you don’t want to do.

You dig your heels in. Hard. When all manners of begging, pleading, and puppy-dog eyes stop working on Piotr, you start resorting to far more childish techniques.

Hiding the journal. Throwing it in the trash. Sleeping in your own room so Piotr can’t try and force you to write something.

Childish? Yes.

Effective? Mostly.

You can tell after about a week and a half that Piotr’s starting to lose patience with you. Not that you blame him --in spite of your determination, you know you’re being an ass.

You suppose that lying to him and pretending to write entries in the journal had been a step too far.

You’re rummaging through the kitchen, searching for Wade’s stash of Pop-Tarts, when a large, menacing shadow falls over you. You pop your head up, smile ready because you know that shadow, and freeze where you’re kneeling.

Piotr has the composition journal in his hand. He’s tense, nostrils flared, and he actually looks angry. “What is this?”

Common sense tells you that now is not the time for jackassery --and you, unlike Wade, actually have enough impulse control to follow it. “You found it.”

“ _Da_. And it’s empty. You told me you were writing entry every night.”

There’s no use in fighting him. You’ve been caught, fair and square. “Piotr--”

“You lied to me,  _myshka_. You  _lied_.”

You clench your teeth together. Okay, yes, you lied to him and that was wrong. You won’t try to defend it. But --God--if he could just get off your ass for five minutes! You were an adult, for fuck’s sake! You didn’t need a babysitter, and you definitely didn’t need someone to force you down the path of healing.

You cross your arms over your chest and glare at him. “What happened to me making all my own choices? I thought I needed to do all of this for myself.”

He braces himself against the counter, face contorting with frustration as he tries to formulate a response. He knows he’s been caught in his own hypocrisy, but that knowledge isn’t calming his rage at being lied to. “ _Radi boga_  --why? You say you want to get better, and then you don’t do what will make you better.”

“This--” You yank the notebook out of his hand and toss it into the hall “--isn’t going to make anything better! This is the opposite of better! This is the last thing I need!”

“How would you know when you haven’t tried?”

“It’s not an issue of ‘ _tried_ ,’ Piotr! The last thing I need to do is go rooting around in my brain and dredge everything up again! The only way I keep things from blowing up in my fucking face is by avoiding thinking about my past and my issues! Using that--” You point at the notebook “--is a guaranteed one way ticket to an episode!”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah! I do! I’ve lived with myself for an entire lifetime now, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that purposefully poking around in my brain doesn’t do anything good! It just shakes everything loose, and then it starts all over again, until everything’s screaming, and all I can hear are the voices, and all I can see is the people I’ve killed or the people that’ve tried to kill me--” You realize, almost too late, that you’re well on your way to having an episode. Your body feels like it’s about to be ripped apart from the inside out, and the image kitchen is being replaced by one of the many times you tried to run away.

You need to get out of the house. Now.

You let out a swear word of some description and bolt for the back door.

Piotr --who’s faster than you when you aren’t using your powers, and you can’t do that in the house, not when you’re like this--clamps down onto your arm and pulls you back. “No, Y/N. No more running.”

You panic. Immediately. It’s impossible to get away from him, not without using your powers and hurting him --to say nothing of obliterating the kitchen. You press your feet against the tile, lower your center of gravity, and try to trash your way out of his vice-like grip. “Piotr! No! Please!”

“No, Y/N. You aren’t running from this anymore. You need to face your issues, not hide from them.”

“No, Piotr, you don’t understand --you have to let me go!”

He lifts you into his arms, bridal style, pins your hands against his chest with one of his massive hands and pins your legs between his forearm and bicep. “I am not doing that.”

You start crying as he carries you further into the house. The memories are pressing harder now, almost completely blotting out the visage of the mansion. “Piotr, no--”

“We’re going to talk to Professor. And Alyssa.”

“Baby, no --please.” Tears stream down your face as he carries you further into the house. You can’t fight his iron clad grip on you --he isn’t listening to your pleas to just let you go, either--so you focus on doing everything you can to stave off your episode. You count backwards from one hundred, go through the state capitals in alphabetical order, and run through all the inane entertainment trivia Wade’s jammed in your head.

None of them work for long. You can hear the wind raging outside, hear the windows shaking in their settings.

You grit your teeth together, squeeze your eyes shut, and focus on blocking out the memories assaulting your brain.  _Don’t lose control. Don’t take down the house. Don’t kill anyone else. Don’t hurt Piotr_.

Piotr.

Oh, God, he’s literally holding you against his chest. If you lost control, here and now, he’d be directly in the line of fire. And he’s not in defense mode, either. There’s no way he’d come out of it alive if you lost control.

You focus on that, focus on his blue eyes --you love his eyes so much, they’re so beautiful--and what they’d look like with the life drained out of them, how devastated you’d be if you killed him.

It works. Not in the sense that it reduces your stress, but it does block out the memories that are competing for center stage in your mind’s eye.

You lose basically any sense of awareness in your efforts to hold off the episode. You can feel the warmth of Piotr’s chest and his tight grip on you, but that’s it.

Eventually, though, you realize that Piotr’s taken you to a part of the mansion you’ve never been in before. The air around you feels different, more compressed.

“You had to carry her here?” Alyssa’s voice, shocked and concerned.

“She tried to run outside,” Piotr says. “After I caught her in lie. She wasn’t making journal entries.”

“She looks like she’s gonna fuckin’ pass out.” Nathan’s voice. “You’re sure she’s okay?”

“I think she may be having episode.”

“And you thought it was a good idea to carry her through the house? Because the tank sized crater she left outside last time really says otherwise.”

“Safe rooms are best place for her. She could hurt herself outside.”

Nathan’s arguing something else, but you don’t hear it. Your mental image of Piotr has been replaced by something else --by two words, actually.

Safe room.

“What’s a safe room?” You spit out through clenched teeth.

“We have some in the mansion for mutants who have difficulty controlling their powers.” Professor Xavier’s voice. “It’s to safeguard them and the other residents.”

Safe room. Specifically designed to contain episodes. Where everyone’ll be safe from you.

“Where is it?” You can feel your control slipping --literally, your hair’s blowing like you’re in the middle of a storm.

“Just ahead,” Professor Xavier says.

You crack one eye open. Through the distorted memories that are clouding your vision, you can just make out a heavy-looking metal security door.

“We need to get her in there,” Nathan growls. “She’s about to go.”

You can hear the door open; Piotr sets you down, and you dead sprint into the safe room. “Okay, close the door.”

“ _Nyet_.” Piotr starts walking towards the safe room. “You’re not going through this alone.”

You’ve had it up to your eyeballs with him not listening to you. “I said close the door!” You shout. You extend your hand, knocking him back with an air current. Then, you reach up, use the air current to grip the edges of the door and slam it shut.

You fall to your knees as you gasp for air. Without any sort of distraction --and with the knowledge that everyone else is safe from you--the memories and the angry voices come back with a vengeance.

You let out a scream as the episode takes over.

 

* * *

 

You’re not sure how long you’re in the safe room. You can’t stay in touch with any semblance of reality. You just let the memories dominate your vision and scream as wind whips around you, as the air pressure goes up and down like a hyperactive yo-yo, as the oxygen levels rise and fall like the US stock market.

It’s a bender. Multiple memories slam through you --being hunted in the woods by men with rifles, being locked in your room for days on end, being beaten with a belt--as you curl up in a ball on the floor. The flickering knowledge that you can’t hurt anyone while you’re in here helps a little, keeps the voices of self hatred and loathing from growing too loud.

Eventually, the episode ends. You catch your breath and crawl over to the nearest wall so you can brace yourself against it.

“How are you doing?” Alyssa’s voice echoes through the room.

Through bleary eyes, you realize there’s a one-way window in the wall across from you. You lay down on the floor on your side, back the window, and curl up into a fetal position.

“We don’t have to talk about it, but we need to know if you’re hurt or not,” she says.

“I’m okay,” You mumble.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Do you remember what I said about being an empath?”

Busted. “Okay. I’m not fine. I’m not hurt, but I feel like shit. Happy?”

“You need to be honest with yourself. That’s the point of therapy. If you aren’t honest about how you’re feeling, I can’t help you. I might be able to sense your feelings, but I can’t help you cope with them unless you choose to ask for that help; you can’t ask for that help if you’re always running away from how you’re really feeling.”

“Geez, everyone just wants to kick my ass,” You mumble into the wall.

“Sometimes we need our asses kicked. But something tells me that you already know that.”

You can feel tears welling up in your eyes as you stare at the wall. “I don’t like rooting around in my own head,” You admit in a tiny, pathetic whisper. “It only turns up bad stuff.”

“Like the episodes? Or the memories?”

“Both, I guess.” You chew on the inside of your cheek before confessing something else. “I didn’t do the writing you asked me to. I didn’t want to. I was scared.”

“Mhm. Your boyfriend and I talked about that.” Her tone suggests that she’s giving Piotr some serious side-eye. “While you shouldn’t lie about not doing your self-care habits, you should be doing them in the first place because you want to. Because they work for you. Being terrified that you’re going to blow up half the house or kill the people you love isn’t good self care.”

“But I don’t even know if the journalling would make me do that.” You’re basically repeating Piotr’s arguments from the kitchen now.

“True, you don’t --but learning to trust yourself after years of being taught that you’re dangerous isn’t an overnight process. Yes, the journalling will help you process your emotions, which should lower your stress, but it’s okay if you’re not ready for that yet. There’s other steps you can take first that won’t involve as much ‘poking around.’” She pauses for a minute, then adds, “We’d like to send someone in with you while you recover.”

You don’t even have to think about it. “No.”

“You’ve been in there for a couple hours --and you’ve expended a lot of energy. You need food and water. And human interaction. It’s an important part of the recovery process.”

“I said no.”

“Y/N--”

“If you send someone in and I relapse back into the episode, I’ll kill them. I’m not killing anyone else! I can’t!”

The intercom is silent for a minute. “What about Mr. Wilson?” The Professor asks. “His healing factor should protect him from your powers, should you relapse.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “What, so I can kill my best friend, have him come back, and live with the memories that I killed him every time I see his face? So I can see his death whenever I have a new episode? I think the fuck not.”

There’s a brief scuffling sound, and then Wade’s talking. “What if I bring in pizza?”

“Your life isn’t worth a fucking pizza.”

“Debatable. I’ve had some pretty good pizza in my time.” Before you can protest, he states, “Look, I’m either coming in with pizza or I’m coming in empty-handed. Your choice.”

“Wade--”

“Look, if you kill me, I get a few minutes with ‘Ness and you get pizza. Win win.”

“No!” You scream, horrified.

“Okay, wrong choice,” Wade mutters. “Look, I trust you. Even if I didn’t have my healing factor, I’d be willing to come sit with you. So, am I bringing the pizza or not?”

His faith in you --and your growling stomach--manage to inch you over the edge. You take a deep breath and push yourself into a sitting position. “You’re bringing the fucking pizza.”

 

* * *

 

It takes some time --Wade has to order the pizza, and your efforts to close the door destroyed the hydraulic engines operating it--but eventually your best friend and honorary brother bounces in with a box of pizza, two bottles of pop, and a package of Keebler Fudge Stripes.

You muster up a smile for him. “You brought cookie crack. I’m touched.”

“I’m nothing if not a thoughtful date.” He sits down in front of you, criss-cross-applesauce, and sets the goodies between the two of you. “So, I had a great idea for our next prank on Scott. Picture this: Multiple. Glitter. Cannons.”

Your smile becomes a little more genuine and a little less forced. “So evil. I love it.”

The two of you work out the details while you eat --what would the cannons be, how would you get Scott in position, what color of glitter would you use, and so on--and eventually you find that you’re genuinely smiling, genuinely laughing. It’s tired --you’re tired--but you can feel the remnants of the episode drifting away.

You take a swig of pop and croak out, “How’s Piotr? Is he okay?”

“Weepy.” Wade shoves three Fudge Stripes in his mouth and crunches down. “He’s pretty worried about you. And suspiciously self-abasing. Did the two of you fight?”

You nod. “Just before he brought me here. I lied to him about using my feelings journal.”

“Eh, talking about your feelings is overrated. That’s why I use cocaine.”

You snort. “I’m pretty sure that if you got me hooked on coke, Piotr would actually kill you.”

“Not like it sticks.”

“I think he’d find a way, just for you.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

You roll your eyes and polish off the rest of your pop. “Is he okay, though? I didn’t hurt him when I shoved him back?”

Wade shakes his head. “Nah. Though, he might implode with worry if we stay in here any longer. Alyssa told him to wait for you to come to him.”

You sigh and push yourself to your feet. “Come on. Let’s go save my boyfriend from imploding.”

 

* * *

 

Wade escorts you back to the common area part of the mansion, forcing you to take it slow and making you sit down whenever your color isn’t meeting his standards.

“Take it from the guy who’s literally just a bucket of cancer,” Wade says when he shoves you into a nearby chair. “Puking and passing out in said puke is not a good time. Zero out of ten, do not recommend. Except maybe to my enemies. And Scott.”

Eventually, you reach the library. The entire X-Force is there, waiting for you --Yukio, Russell, and Ellie are sitting on one of the couches, phones out, Neena and Nathan are by the windows, talking quietly, and Piotr’s at one of the tables, hands clasped in front of him.

Your chest aches when you realize that his knuckles are white from how tightly he’s holding his hands. His entire body is stiff, and he’s clenching his teeth together; it’s a miracle that his jaw hasn’t cracked yet, you can visibly see the stress he’s putting it under.

For once, Wade wasn’t kidding. Piotr looks like he’s literal seconds away from actually imploding from stress.

He looks up when Wade announces your presence, and is out of his seat and halfway across the distance between you and the tables before you can really register him moving.

You sigh as he pulls you into his arms. “I’m okay,” You murmur. “It’s okay. I’m alright.”

He kisses the top of your head. “You need rest. Let’s get you to bed,  _myshka_.”

 

* * *

 

After taking a couple minutes to exchange hugs with the rest of the X-Force and reassure them that you were alright, Piotr had scooped you into his arms and carried you back to his room. After a quick shower and change into some pajamas, he’d carried you to his bed and carefully tucked you in before laying down next to you.

You’re tangled in each other’s arms now. You alternate between looping your arms around his neck and rubbing your hands up and down his back; Piotr keeps one arm pressed against your back so that you’re nestled against his chest. His free hand meanders aimlessly over your body --up and down your arm, over your shoulders and neck, smoothing over your damp hair, gently massaging your back. His lips press against your forehead, your hair, your lips, your cheeks, switching between unbelievably gentle kisses and breathless affections whispered in Russian and English.

Maybe time passes, maybe it doesn’t. You’re not sure you entirely care; the universe could come completely unhinged, but you wouldn’t mind if you could stay in his arms.

Eventually, though, he does break the near silence with a guilt-heavy murmur. “I’m sorry.”

You tilt your head back. There’s a full moon tonight, and what little light that seeps around the edges of the curtains is just enough to make his face visible. You reach up with one hand and stroke the cheek that isn’t pressed against a pillow. “What for?”

“I... I reacted poorly. Over the feelings journal. Alyssa and I had long conversation about it.” He swallows audibly. “I care about you --I love you, Y/N--and it worries me when you are not taking care of yourself, but... I cannot force you. I should not force you. And I did --or, rather, tried. You are adult, and I need to respect that. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have lied about it. And I should’ve been more honest about how I was feeling.” You card your fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t communicate well. I’m sorry I lied to you.”

He presses his lips against your forehead. “I forgive you,  _myshka_. And... I didn’t handle... getting you to safe room well. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

You wriggle closer to him and kiss his cheeks. “You’ll get better at this.  _We’ll_  get better at this. Together. As a team. Camaraderie and all that bullshit.”

He chuckles, mumbles something about your language, and pulls you in for a gentle kiss.

The two of you fall asleep, eventually, wrapped up in each other.

There’s no better way to be.


End file.
